


That Would Be Enough

by lousy_science



Category: La La Land (2016)
Genre: Gen, Politics, Protests, Women's March, Women's March on Washington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Mia Dolan has never marched in a protest in her life. But she knows a little about the power of moving forward, even when you're unsure of what the future holds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title, inevitably, from Hamilton.

Mia’s Instagram feed was bright, cheerful, and boring. That was what Lainey Gossip had said, and Mia had nodded when her PR mentioned it during a movie campaign debrief meeting. Sure it was boring. Mia and her people worked very hard to keep it boring. She hated having pictures of her daughter online anywhere, though she did put up a picture of a cute cardigan she’d bought her in Milan #couldntresist #retailtherapy #momma. It had been a mistake; her office was inundated with requests to feature children’s products, and free kids clothes suddenly flooded in. It appalled Mia, who wasn’t above enjoying a freebie, if it was a bottle of perfume or an advance copy of a book, but being given multiple pairs of tiny shoes priced at $350 made her feel queasy. She made her assistant Fleur drop them off at women’s shelters while she hand wrote polite thank-you letters. 

Aside from the occasional behind-the-scenes shots, promotional teaser posters, and red carpet prep pictures - which were the most popular by far, for reasons Mia couldn’t fathom - her favorites were the re-enactment photos she’d get taken by her friend Caitlin. Caitlin was a photographer full-time now, and the two of them would get together and cook up ideas for a shoot based around a movie or song. They did a tribute to Funny Face, another to Cole Porter, and for Pride last year she’d put on a tuxedo and a blonde wig for a black-and-white shot #marlenedietrich #1930 #morocco #loveislove. That was about as political as @MiaDolanOffical got. 

Up until January the 15th. It was a Sunday afternoon, around two in the afternoon. Mia tried to keep her days off as screen-free as she could, but while David was in the kitchen making dinosaur cookies with a very enthusiastic toddler helper, Mia found herself on the couch scrolling through her phone. 

She had a secret Facebook account under the name Kathy Selden. Like her Instagram account, it was boring, but it was a place for her to keep up to date with her friends from school and see her cousin’s cute dog pictures. Sometimes she would come across a charity fundraiser or a kickstarter campaign and anonymously donate a few thousand towards it, then wallow for a few minutes in the page updates later on. That was about her worst social media habit, and Mia figured it was a tolerable indulgence. She had recently worked with an actor who spent ten grand on cosmetic surgery for his earlobes, which put things in perspective. 

But that Sunday she flipped through Facebook with her stomach feeling like she had drunk battery acid. Her college roommate Brianna had posted a picture of her family, her gorgeous daughter Zora and her wife Roslyn holding up placards saying ‘Not My President’ and ‘The Future is STILL Female’, and Brianna had written “We march for her future.”

Mia could hear her daughter in the kitchen, squealing with joy as raw dough gummed up between her fingers. She swiped over to her contacts, and dialed Fleur. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s the weekend. But I need to go to Washington next weekend.”

It was easy; money made things incredibly easy. That was something that worried Mia, that she’d get complacent with how easy some things were for her now. 

Mia voted, and she donated money to political campaigns that she believed in, and to causes that were close to her heart, but she didn’t talk much about it. She had always figured that no one needed her to lecture them about police brutality or water rights or the melting ice caps. She was a college drop-out who had memorised all the dialogue from _The Philadelphia Story_ instead of reading the Riot Grrrl manifesto that Brianna had pinned to their dorm room walls. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t care, it was that she felt things so deeply, and was too thin-skinned for the world of politics. A lifelong fan of entertainment who regarded pop culture as a secret sacrament, Mia felt that telling stories was important work, that making people laugh and cry and be moved to post tribute videos on YouTube was performing some sort of service. No, it wasn’t as important as a nurse’s work, or a teacher, or a community organiser, but it had value. And that’s why she did it. The material rewards were nice, the bottles of perfume and advance copies of books and her stupidly big house and having a babysitter who spoke four languages and a degree in child psychology, that was all awesome, but it wasn’t why she stepped in front of the lights and turned her face to the cameras. 

But when she got off the plane and walked on the damp Washington tarmac Mia was already trying to find the right words to match the sick feeling in her stomach. It had always been a form of pain management, to nail a feeling down with language, then to find the right tone, the science of gesture and pause, an alchemy, a magic way of transforming all this useless feeling into something that could rise up her heart even when it ached. Sometimes she thought that she only became a good actor after she met Sebastian. It wasn’t the hurt he’d caused her, it was how he’d taught her what she could do with what she felt. 

Fleur had worked miracles and Mia’s hotel room was close to the start of the march. Money, again, helped, and she’d asked Fleur to put together a list of organisations helping marchers get transport and accommodation, and to write them a few cheques. Still she didn’t know exactly what she was doing here, apart from walking a few blocks across town. Mia had been to the White House as part of a school visit when she was fifteen. All she remembered were the crepes they’d eaten for breakfast and the copy of _Like Water for Chocolate_ she’d read on the businstead of listening to her history teacher. Most of the American history she’d absorbed had been through seeing _Hamilton_ four times. 

She didn’t have a sign. She didn’t have a script, a role to play, a song to sing. Her manager had left four increasingly panicked voicemails. Mia was due to start shooting a romcom in Prague in two days. 

There were women, and men, all across this city pacing their own carpets, with their own personal fears lodged in their stomachs. Some of them would, like Mia, size up the contents of the minibar. And like her, they would be singing songs, and laying out their warmest clothing in preparation. Mia hummed The Trolley Song to herself and thought about the bedtime story she was missing out on reading. 

The next morning she sipped coffee and looked down as the morning light hit the pavements. They were already bustling with pink-hatted crowds. Everyone of them looked like a heart. Mia didn’t feel sick anymore. She was surrounded by people who were, for one day at least, moving in the same direction as she was. 

Walking out of the hotel she followed the pink hats up the road. It was cold, even through her gloves, but she felt her blood surging in her veins rising like a drumroll. Stories, she thought, we’re all here with our stories, and we’re going to write our own destinies instead of letting someone else do it for us. Her steps got quicker, she wanted to get in the thick of the march, and feel the size of it. It had been so long since she’d been just a person in a crowd. 

There were some teen girls walking to the left of her, chatting excitedly and holding their Princess Leia ‘A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance’ signs high. One of them looked over to her. “Excuse me?”

Mia braced herself. “Hi?”

“Could you take a picture of us?”

She wanted to smack herself for her presumption. “Of course! You all look awesome.”

They threw up peace signs and gave big smiles. She clicked and clicked, wanting the whole world to see their energy. 

“Can I ask something?”

One of the girls looked up from examining the pictures on her phone. “Sure, what?”

“Could I please get a selfie with you? For my social media?” She felt about a hundred years old saying that, and the creased smile of the girl’s reaction meant she must’ve sounded like it. 

“Of course, yeah! We’re all sisters today!”

“Yeah! Totally!” Her friends bubbled over with enthusiasm, already reaching out for Mia’s phone. They handed her a sign, and she held it up. The crowd around them was getting bigger. Mia looked into the screen view, and saw their faces lined up with hers, and clicked. 

“Whooooooo…!” A roar had built up in the crowd and passed over them. Mia threw her hands up and cheered along. 

Mia wanted to march, to be present, and not think about the electronic leash of her phone’s coverage, so she posted quickly. 

_I’m marching for my daughter. Because she deserves to grow up and believe she can do anything_. #womensmarch #solidarity #lovetrumpshate

And Mia walked forward. 


End file.
